Seven
Ara
Dr. Kent is the living embodiment of academic fraud. A glorified parasite. He thrives on stealing credit from his students, slapping his name on their work, and parading their ideas as his own. Yet, no one does anything about it. Why? Because he has the untouchable shield of being related to the illustrious founding family of this Institute.
I’ve had the misfortune of working under him for a year. That was enough to learn how shameless he can be. After he slapped his name on my research, he took it forward with his team and then pushed me out entirely.
It’s the biggest setback of my career, etched into my memory. And now, as if the universe delights in testing me, he’s back—undoubtedly here to convince me to collaborate, only to steal my work again.
Rumours are swirling about his crumbling team and floundering stem cell research. He’s desperate, grasping for a lifeline to keep the board funding him.
And who better than me, the woman making strides in cancer genetics? But if he thinks I’ll let him exploit me twice, he’s in for a rude awakening.
“That’s a well-articulated explanation, Dr. Sinclair,” Kent says after my lecture, his tone dripping with faux admiration. “Impressive, especially for someone whose primary expertise lies in genetics. Handling cytology with such finesse—it’s quite the surprise.”
The room goes quiet. A few students exchange uneasy glances, while others sigh audibly as they gather their things.
His interruptions are nothing new, but his patronising tone grates on me every single time. I keep my expression neutral, but inside, I bristle.
How is it “impressive” that I understand cytology when my entire research revolves around cellular behaviour? Either his head is as thick as a brick, or he’s just being his usual insufferable self.
I ignore him completely and turn my attention to Kevin, one of my students, who lingers by my desk with an eager smile. Kevin is sharp and hardworking, though he is still finding his confidence. After hearing about the harsh feedback he received from his professor recently, I offered to look over his thesis.
“There’s nothing here that needs changing,” I say warmly, handing his work back to him.
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Yes, you’ve done an excellent job so far. I’d suggest adding growth curve graphs to strengthen your data. And instead of measuring so far apart, try capturing results every hour. It’s a lot of work, but I know you’re capable of it.”
Kevin nods, his enthusiasm shining through. “Thank you, Dr. Sinclair. I’ll do that.”
“I noticed you haven’t included nucleic acid structure images. How do you plan to incorporate them without access to a cryo microscope?” I ask, tilting my head.
His brow furrows slightly. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. Dr. Hale’s funding doesn’t—”
“Hale?” Kent cuts in with a loud scoff. “That woman is barely holding on. The university’s keeping her around out of pity.”
Kevin and I both turn to glare at him. Dr. Hale, despite her limited resources, has more integrity in her little finger than Kent could muster in a lifetime.
“You’re welcome to use the cryo microscope in my lab,” I say, dismissing Kent entirely. “Just let me or Ray know when you need it, and we’ll grant you access.”
Kevin’s eyes widen in shock. “Are you serious, Dr. Sinclair?”
I chuckle softly. His disbelief is endearing. My lab is my sanctuary, a treasure trove of cutting-edge equipment. I don’t often grant access to it, but what kind of professor would I be if I didn’t help my students?
“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with a smile.
“Thank you! Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair. You’re amazing—the best!”
I wave off his praise, though my cheeks warm. You’d think I’d be used to compliments by now, but they still leave me feeling shy.
Kevin leaves with a renewed sense of purpose, and I return to packing up my things. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Kent still lingering by the seats.
He smirks. “Generous, aren’t we?”
I don’t bother replying. Let him stew. My success doesn’t need his validation, nor will it ever depend on his approval. In my books, he is inconsequential and plain useless.
I zip my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I step down from the podium. Just as I make my way toward the door, Kent blocks my path. I raise an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
Does he honestly think this would intimidate me? I’m taller than him by a few inches and fully capable of jabbing my pen into his neck if he so much as twitches in a threatening way. Besides, there are cameras in every corner of this room.
Though, speaking of cameras, hasn’t anyone noticed Mr Devlin hanging around? Then again, even if they have, I doubt anyone here is brave—or suicidal—enough to confront him about it.
“How’s your research coming along?” Kent’s nasal voice cuts into my thoughts.
My irritation flares, but I keep my tone polite. “It’s going well. Thank you for asking.”
“It could go even better if you had access to my lab and resources,” he suggests, a thin smirk curling his lips.
I bite back a retort. My lab is far superior to his outdated dungeon of snatched ideas, but I’m not about to stoop to his level.
“Thank you for the generous offer, Dr. Kent. I’ll let you know if I ever need assistance.”
I won’t. I’d contact a random undergrad before I’d ever turn to him.
Still, he doesn’t move, so I step to the side, only for him to mirror the motion, blocking my path again.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” My voice tightens.
I’m acutely aware of the heels I wore this morning—bad decision. After standing for over an hour, my feet are screaming, and nausea is starting to creep in. Kent’s sickly sweet stench of bleach and whatever else is mixed into his cologne isn’t helping.
“Well, since you asked,” he drawls, “why don’t we collaborate on our research? It’s obvious you’d benefit more from my results than I ever could from yours, but I’m generous. Especially toward former students.”
I scoff, loud and deliberate. His eyes narrow in surprise and offence.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps, his voice rising.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” I reply coolly. “For the seventh time, I do not wish to collaborate with you. I’d appreciate it if you stopped asking. One might think you’re… desperate.”
His face turns an angry shade of red, his liver-spotted skin mottles with rage. He steps closer, his stance shifting into something meant to be intimidating. I subtly retreat, slipping a hand into my bag to grab my pen—just in case.
“Listen here, you fat fucking—”
The sharp sound of footsteps interrupts his tirade.
Both of us whip our heads toward the back of the room. I’m not surprised to see Mr. Devlin approaching. I’d noticed his presence earlier but was too distracted by Kent’s antics to pay him much mind. He had been annoying me throughout the class so much that I had even forgotten about the man in the shadows.
Kent, on the other hand, looks like he’s seen a ghost.
Devlin strides forward with an air of menace, his steps deliberate. He stops just beside me, his broad frame nearly brushing mine. Heat radiates off him, and his scent—Oud and leather, dark and dangerous—overwhelms my senses. I try not to focus on how small I feel next to him or how much I enjoy the contrast.
Devlin doesn’t even glance at me. His eyes, cold and empty, are locked on Kent.
It takes a certain kind of courage to stand up to a man like Zagan Devlin, and Kent clearly doesn’t have it. His legs are shaking, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously as he swallows. As if he has heard me saying his name in my thoughts, Devlin turns to me.
“Stay.”
“I’m not a dog,” My voice is light as I frown at him.
He doesn’t reply to that but turns to the sleazy man.
“Your name,” Devlin says.
It’s not a question; it’s a demand. His voice is low and authoritative
“Ri… Richard Kent, sir,” Kent stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Women are meant to be respected, Richard.” Devlin starts.
His words surprise me. I would never peg this man to be a gentleman out of everything. Before that thought could solidify,
“The next time I hear your mouth spew shit about her, I’ll have your head on a spike. It’ll make a fine exhibit over the gates, don’t you think?”
I exhale shakily, the weight of his words settling over me. Thank God the cameras don’t have audio, or there would be widespread cardiac arrests.
Kent’s face turns ashen, and he trembles like a leaf in a storm.
I glance at Devlin’s profile—sharp, unyielding, his jaw set in an expression that promises he’s not bluffing. No, this isn’t just a threat. It’s a promise.
“Y…yes, sir,” Kent stutters.
Devlin takes a step closer, and despite my dislike for Kent, I almost pity him. Almost.
“I think it’s time you retire, Richard,” Devlin says, his tone flat and final.
It’s the way he says Richard’s name like the whisper of a grim reaper who calls for your name before your soul gets snatched from your body. There’s no room for argument. Even with his calm delivery, the command is clear as day.
“Right away, sir,” he mutters, his voice shaking.
“Now, fuck off.”
Kent bolts, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes out the door.
The room is silent. It’s just me and Devlin now, and I know I should be terrified. He just casually threatened someone with medieval violence, and yet here I am, fixated on the way his back muscles ripple under his tailored suit.
“Don’t be a pushover, little siren.”
Little siren? My brow furrows as I look up at him, startled. Did he just call me a pushover, too?
The audacity!
Before I can muster a response, the hulking man is already walking away, disappearing out the door like he wasn’t just handing out death sentences moments ago.
I’m left standing there, hot, bothered, and thoroughly annoyed.
* * *
“Well, things just got interesting,” Ivy mutters, dodging the fry I weakly toss her way. It doesn’t even make it halfway across the table. My arms feel like lead, and my head is heavy, caffeine failing me—a new and unwelcome betrayal.
She leans over, pressing a cool hand to my forehead, then my cheeks.
“You’re running a fever,” she says, her worry evident.
That explains the irritability, the grogginess, and why my body feels decades older overnight. Relief trickles in—at least I’m not suddenly ancient.
“I guess I’m taking her home, then.”
The deep voice startles us both. Ivy yelps, and I flinch, swivelling to find Eero sliding into the booth beside me. His audacity feels as jarring as a siren in a silent room. Ivy’s brows shoot up as my eyes land on the fries he’s pilfering from my plate.
“Eero,” I say, relief and disbelief mingling in my voice. “You’re in one piece.”
He winks, a glint of amusement softening his sharp presence. Despite myself, the knot of worry lingering since he vanished into the woods loosens.
“Wait,” Ivy cuts in, narrowing her eyes. “He’s taking you home?”
“No,” I mutter, rummaging through my bag for my keys.
Eero smirks, tilting his head my way. “You think it’s a good idea for your friend to hop on a bus or hail a cab alone at night after working late?”
Ivy’s lips part, and I glance at him, wariness creeping in.
“How do you even know I’m working late?” Ivy’s voice sharpens, suspicion flaring.
Eero’s gaze shifts to her, predatory yet amused. “I know everything, darling.”
The words ripple unease through the table. Ivy’s hand freezes halfway to her water glass.
He leans back, eyes flicking between us before landing on Ivy with hawk-like precision. “Like how you’ve picked up a shadow recently, Ms. O’Shea. A blonde freak who smiles too much—ring any bells?”
Ivy flinches, guilt flashing across her face. My jaw tightens when a blurb goes on in my head.
“That guy? The one who kept staring at you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He warned me not to,” Ivy sighs, avoiding my gaze.
“Smart girl.” Eero’s grin is razor-sharp. “He’s not the kind you cross. Though compared to my boss, Iblis is just a cheap parlour trick.”
“Iblis,” I repeat, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he why you quit reporting? Why you want me to move into your neighbourhood?”
Ivy looks up, her eyes glassy with unspoken fears.
“It wasn’t just that,” she admits softly.
“She’s been looking out for you, love. You should be flattered.” Eero clicks his tongue, clearly enjoying the revelation.
“Stop it,” I snap, my tone sharper than intended, fever amplifying my frustration.
“Stop what?” His brow arches in mock innocence.
“Stop… being you.”
He chuckles low, but my retort is cut off by a coughing fit. Ivy’s instantly on her feet, pressing a palm to my forehead again.
“You need antibiotics. And rest.”
“I’ll call a cab.” I dig through my bag, movements sluggish. “Take my keys, Ivy. It’s safer if you drive.”
The morning’s carpool plan feels ridiculous now. Eero leans back, arms crossed.
“Or, I could take you home. Problem solved.”
“No, thanks.” I stagger to my feet, only for dizziness to hit.
“I wasn’t asking.” He rises, towering beside me.
“Why would I go anywhere with you?” I glare at him.
He leans in, keeping a measured distance. “Stranger danger is real, love. But in this case, you’re safer with me than anyone else.”
Ivy hesitates, torn between protest and concern. I grip the table to steady myself as another wave of weakness washes over me. Eero growls low, pulling his keys from his pocket.
“I don’t want your help,” I mutter.
“And I don’t care,” he snaps, tone brooking no argument. “Protecting the boss’s interest is my job. And you, sweetheart, happen to be that interest.”
I stiffen, his words settling uncomfortably in my chest.
“Why?” I manage, defiant despite my exhaustion.
His grin is all teeth, eyes glinting with something dark and unreadable.
“Let’s just say sharing isn’t his strong suit.”